In the silent interval between two storms,
A somber ship cuts the weight of rippleless waters.
See where the wake divides, and a trough of calm
Quietly foams between the here and gone.
Now we succumb to night and become the pulse
Of a slow and primitive slumber of affection.
In the cavernous room with the crystal chandeliers,
Whose constellations glitter in the stillness,
Taste how the dark adagio swells the air,
And fills the lungs with the antidote to sorrow.
When the colorless ship slides through the lolling ocean.
Feel how we glide once more through the heavy splendor,
Our veins dilating in the exhalate.
Hear how the song elongates through the night,
As the vast ship slips below the smooth, black waves.

It was a blue bird that sat in the top of a red tree.
His tail bobbled up and down as he squawked,
And the midmorning air was hot. The sky was white.
Little clicking sounds nicked the air from unseen
Insects hidden in the foliage, and old thoughts,
Desires whose colossal and ancient edifices
We have inhabited for many millennia,
Began to creak dangerously in preparation —
In preparation for what? A collapse?
A disintegration? A powdering of steel
And concrete into the microdust of white skies
Where a blue bird sits in the top of a red tree,
Etcetera, and squawks of a new day
Being born right out of the slippery egg
Of the old one? The air is warm, but a slight breeze
Cools us as we sit in the new world,
Happy amidst the swirl of wings,
And the clicking sounds of millions of hidden angels.

Although the enfeebled stars and the waning moon
Are scarcely visible, they still possess,
Through the intercessions of enumerable
Tiny threads, the potency to pull us from our sleep.
Now they have set us to wandering in a realm,
Which we suddenly realize is characterized
By something much more than simple lack.
The threads are actually attached to places
Buried deep inside the body, places unreachable
From the exterior, and hence, beyond the balm
Of any comfort. We wake. And the night, an agency
Of reparation, enlivens its hold on us, so that the Un-
Forces — unconscious, unreachable, unlit —
Bring us under the influence of those enfeebled stars
And that waning moon, where we may grieve, at last,
In a complete darkness, exterior and interior,
For the uninhabited husks of the undead.
How many times have we passed through the dirt
And darkness having surrendered our bodies
To these lost ones? We die. We live. We sleep.
We are awake. And the many forms, which shuffle
Through our bones show by these threads that tug us
Towards the future that birth and being were never
Ours to own. . .